Captive Secrets (17 page)

 

Fury was exhausted when she woke the following morning. She'd dreamed all night, terrible dreams. First her mother and father had spent hours screaming at her, berating her for not redeeming Sirena's good name. Then Luis Domingo had taken over, accosting her with a wicked-looking cutlass and threatening to kill her mother. In her nightmare she'd run from the Spaniard until she was breathless, searching desperately for the cave where he'd stashed his cargo. And then, just as she'd been about to uncover his lair, she'd awakened.

Thieves always tried to blame someone else, Fury decided as she threw open the windows and savored the flower-scented air. Overhead in the thick umbrella of green leaves, she heard a soft rustling. Her beauties . . .

She called to the hawks and was rewarded by the sight of a sleepy Pilar parting the branches overhead with her wing tips, her glossy head peeking through the emerald leaves. Fury waved listlessly, and within moments both birds were perched on the balcony railing, eyes glittering and intent. They remained motionless as she stroked their heads, murmuring soft early-morning words of greeting.

“I wonder,” Fury mused, “if there is a way for you to . . . spy on Luis Domingo.” She must be out of her mind, she thought. The hawks were intelligent but certainly not capable of spying. Still . . . “It would be nice if you could follow him and report back. You know, scratch me a message or bring me something to prove he really was attacked by a pirate.” She giggled, her usual good humor returning. Gaspar's wing wavered and then wrapped itself around her shoulder. A moment later Pilar, the less affectionate of the two birds, followed suit. “I know, I know,” Fury gurgled, delighted, “you are going to take care of everything. Well, I'm going to take care of you right now and give you your breakfast, and then we're going to take a look at the
Rana.”

Fury wondered what could possibly be accomplished by running down to the cove where her mother's old ship was berthed. The
Rana
must be rotted through and through by now, probably unsafe to board. Still, it would be wonderful to see her again and know once and for all that no pirate had restored her and taken her out to sea to pillage and plunder. At the very least, seeing the ship would reassure her.

Buoyed by the prospect of taking action—any kind of action—Fury dressed, breakfasted, and fed the hawks, then strode out to the stables.

She had always loved the pungent smell of this place. As a child she had played and romped and hidden in the straw, daring her parents to find her, squealing in her high, child's voice when her father pretended not to know which particular pile of straw she was hiding in. So many pleasant, wonderful memories.

“I'll take Starlight,” she told a young stable boy. “Fetch her out and I'll saddle her myself.” Starlight was a spirited roan mare with a perfect white blaze and three white stockings. Fury loved her and tried to ride out with her for at least a little while every day.

The stable boy, no more than twelve years of age, stood back as she threw on the saddle and secured the cinch. His eyes almost popped from his head when the two hawks swooped down, their talons spread to secure a perch on the back of the leather saddle. Fury laughed, her long hair billowing backward between the two birds as she spurred Starlight to a fast canter. The boy stared after her, blessing himself as the huge birds flapped their wings and screeched.

After a minute or two Fury tightened the reins, forcing Starlight to a trot. The humidity was at its heaviest, and it would be at least an hour before they came to water. She kept her eyes to the ground as the roan picked her way daintily through the vine-covered trails. This particular track held years and years of growth, so much so that at last she was forced to slip from the roan's back and tether her.

She wasn't absolutely sure of her way, but she seemed to recognize certain outcroppings and fern glades. The thatched hut where her mother had hidden things she wished to keep secret. It was just a lean-to now. Fury had been to the cove only three times—once with her mother, once with her father, and once with all four of her brothers. That time, the five of them had sneaked off without telling anyone, and as they'd stood on the rise looking down at their mother's ship, they'd played a game, each of them getting the chance to be captain. At the end of the day they'd all been in agreement—none of them would ever fill their mother's shoes when it came to pirating games on the sea. They'd all been punished upon their return, and Fury had cried, heartbroken—not because she'd been sent to bed without dinner, but because she would never be the Sea Siren.

The hawks were overhead now, working what little breeze there was to stay as close to her as possible, both of them screeching their displeasure at these strange new surroundings. Fury felt like screaming herself as she beat at the vines and vegetation choking off the path. She was sweating profusely, and her long hair was hanging in lank strings about her face. She ripped at the neck and sleeves of her dress to bare her arms and shoulders to the stagnant air. It occurred to her that she was making a mistake: all this time and trouble merely to look at a decaying, rotting ship. But she plowed on determinedly, wiping her face with the tattered sleeves of her dress. Above, the birds circled lazily in the blazing sun.

A minute later she felt a cooling breeze wash over her and knew she was almost to the rise above the cove. She stopped, her heart hammering in her chest. Please, she prayed, let the ship be there.

The hawks were ahead of her now; even at this distance she could see they were ready to swoop down and meet her at the rise. She ran then, not even feeling the branches that scratched her bare arms and legs. Another few feet and she would be in the clearing.

Like a child, Fury covered her eyes, delaying the moment of discovery. Finally, unable to stand the suspense a moment longer, she took her hands away—and stared in disbelief at the frigate. Even from this distance she could see that the ship was in perfect condition, her decks and railings gleaming. And black as tar.

Fury swayed dizzily. It was impossible; the
Rana
was supposed to be safely anchored and rotting away to nothingness. God in heaven, how was this possible?

Should she scramble down the bank and swim out to the ship? One look at the sun told her she had to head back to the casa or she would be late for dinner. Tomorrow she would return—properly dressed. She needed time to think, time to consider. . . .

All the way back to the house Fury's mind raced. Someone had kept the ship in repair; more than that, she was completely outfitted and ready to take to the sea. But who? Was it the same person who had plundered Luis Domingo's ship? Was it perhaps Luis Domingo himself? Soon she would have her answers.

Fury galloped into the courtyard at full speed, reining Starlight so abruptly that the mare reared back, her front hooves pawing the air, the hawks screeching as they dived downward and then up. As the stable boy ran to help her, she slid from the horse and dashed to the kitchen doorway.

Inside the house, she tore up the stairs like a whirlwind, calling over her shoulder, “Juli! Draw me a bath and get my clothes ready,” and shedding her torn gown at the top of the stairs. She left her petticoats and both shoes in a pile outside her door.

Juli came hurrying over, eyes dancing with amusement. “Everything is in readiness and has been for some time,” she said tartly. “I am well aware that the van der Rhys women tend to do things at the last moment. Rest easy, Miss Fury, your mother always said it was fashionable to keep a man waiting.”

“Not this lady,” Fury muttered as she slipped into the tub of steaming water. “Ooooh, this is hot!”

“How else will we get all the . . . What
are
you covered with?” Juli demanded. “And what are we to do with your hair? It will never dry!”

“It's dust, Juli—dust and sweat and Lord only knows what else. Oh,
how
will I ever be ready in time?” Fury wailed. “What—”

“I'll think of something, Miss Fury. Now hold still while I . . . ” Juli frowned in concentration as she dunked, rubbed, and scrubbed Fury within an inch of her life. When she stepped from the tub she was again rubbed and patted until her skin glowed. Powder permeated the air, as did a fragrant scent that made Fury's head reel. At last Juli smiled. “Intoxicating! You'll have to dress yourself while I see about . . . Ah, I have just the thing for your hair. Your mother left it behind. Many times she, too, would return late from one of her excursions, and her hair, like yours, took forever to dry. Your father never suspected. I'm so glad I saved it.”

Thirty minutes later Fury was fully dressed in a rich tangerine silk dress with long, loosely cuffed sleeves and gores of silk swirling about her ankles. She felt elegant and quite grown-up, especially since the dress had belonged to her mother and fitted her perfectly. No jewelry was needed to adorn the timeless elegance of the gown, but she definitely wanted a flower in her hair—only it was soaking wet.

“I found it, I found it!” Juli cried exultantly from the doorway. “It's just as dazzling as it was the day your mother wore it for the first time. It's called a skullcap,” she said, fingering the delicate circle of fabric. “I remember when she had it made. It took hours to sew these tiny pearls and brilliants over the silk. See the way it curves here at the edges. You can either cover your ears or . . . Try it on, Miss Fury.”

A moment later Juli clapped her hands in delight. “You look like a royal queen! Remember to hold your head up because the crown of the cap is the heaviest. As your hair starts to dry it could slide off.”

Fury frowned. “It is heavy. Perhaps a coronet of braids . . .”

“There's no time,” Juli said, shaking her head. “Father Sebastian and a very handsome gentleman are waiting for you on the veranda. And now that you aren't going into the convent,” she added meaningfully, “it wouldn't hurt you to . . . flirt a little. You are your mother's daughter, after all.”

Fury flushed. “How did my mother tolerate your brazenness?” she demanded.

“Your mother taught me to speak my mind. If she were here, she'd tell you the same thing.”

“Is he really that dashing?” Fury asked, giving herself one last look in the full-length mirror. “I met him only once at my birthday ball months ago. He didn't . . . what I mean is . . .”

Juli giggled. “He didn't make your blood sing, eh? Well, he will tonight, young lady. He will tonight.”

 

Luis Domingo's manners were impeccable, his eyes glowing with admiration as he bowed low over Fury's extended hand. “You cannot be the same young lady I escorted to dinner a few months ago,” he murmured.

“Oh. And why is that, Señor Domingo?” Fury asked coolly.

“You were merely pretty then. Tonight you are ravishing.” He pressed her hand once, lingeringly, then let it go. “Then you were but a sweet child; now you are a formidable young woman.”

Flustered, Fury remained silent as she led the way into the house, where Juli served wine in elegant crystal goblets. The moment they were seated, Fury fixed her gaze on Luis and spoke directly. “Father Sebastian tells me that your ship was attacked by . . . some woman.”

Father Sebastian's jaw dropped, his eyes flying first to Fury and then to Luis Domingo. With a sinking heart, he saw Domingo's jaw tense.

“Not
some
woman,” Luis replied, “The infamous Sea Siren herself. She plundered my ship and made off with all my cargo, with the exception of some sandalwood.”

“Come now, señor,” Fury said casually, sipping her wine, “even I remember the stories about the Sea Siren, and I was only a child. If there is such a person, she must be quite old by now. You described a beautiful young woman to Father Sebastian. How do you explain that? I, too, have seen the picture that hangs in the Dutch East India offices, and Mynheer Dykstra, a good friend of the family's, told us that picture is over twenty years old.”

Luis shrugged. “I cannot explain it. I can only tell you what happened. My men were present. She was there and she was real and the frigate she sailed was black as Hades,” he said coldly.

Fury decided to try another tack. “Señor Domingo, there must be hundreds of black ships that sail the seas. You did say this attack occurred at dusk, the deadliest time of day for sea captains. Perhaps it was the lighting that made the frigate look black.”

Luis's eyes darkened. “Would that same lighting also make white sails turn black? And how do you explain the woman herself? She talked to me—I didn't imagine
that.
I tell you, she was real and she was beautiful, much the same as she was described to me.”

The priest sipped his wine and regarded Luis thoughtfully. “How close were you to this female pirate, señor,” he asked, “and how old would you say she was?”

“Stern to stern,” Luis replied, “and young. Beautiful, deadly . . .”

“And an impostor!” Fury said, waving her hand in the air. “Surely a man of your vast experience has reasoned that out by now. Fairy tales, señor, are for children, and this particular tale has been told over and over until it's become real. The Sea Siren is either dead or, more likely, retired from the sea.”

Luis was on his feet, his mouth a tense, grim line. “Am I to understand you're calling me a liar, señorita?” he said quietly.

Fury remained seated and offered Luis a serene smile. “No, señor, I am merely saying I
think
you're mistaken. An able impostor is the only logical explanation.”

“How is it you know so much about this scourge of the seas?” Luis demanded.